


32 Hours

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fix-It, Friends to Lovers, Grieving John, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mary Dies, Mary Friendly, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Post-Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-08
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-05 15:35:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5380607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The night is not your friend, John.<br/>The silence and the darkness press in around you, squeezing out the memories like tar from a smoker's lungs. <br/>They swirl around you.<br/>They fill your nose, your ears, your eyes, your mouth. <br/>They suffocate you. <br/>You drown in them.</p>
<p>It only takes thirty-two hours for your life to be torn down. When Mary and her unborn child don't survive the birth, it's up to Sherlock to help John rebuild his life. Healing is a two-way process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tobacco and Melancholia

**Author's Note:**

> Three million thanks to the amazing Shirley Carlton for betaing this work and all her wonderful advice. You're a star-and-a-half. xx
> 
> I'm really rather proud of this work. It's been in the works for six months and I think it's a big improvement in my writing from the Never Once Failed series. I wanted John and Sherlock to have to deal with normal, human problems - for too long they've been dealing with nothing but psychopaths and murderers. Real life has to catch up with them at some point, and it's time they dealt with it. This is my take on a post-HLV establishing Johnlock fic. Angst abound - but also healing, in-depth relationships, and, eventually, romance. I'll be updating this gradually, as I'm still finishing the ending.
> 
> Ratings will change as appropriate as chapters are uploaded. Will eventually become explicit.

February

* * *

 

 

 

_"The birth clinic have said they want to induce labour, as she's a week over. Going in to hospital now. I'll let you know when you can come visit. Mary said her mother took sixteen hours with her - don't worry if you don't hear from me for a while. J"_

Sherlock, for once, didn't know how to reply. He lowered the phone from in front of his face and frowned at John's armchair opposite him, as though a suitable response might reveal itself if he stared at the plaid pattern for long enough. However, the armchair remained silent and offered no ideas.

Ought he wish them luck? _Ugh. Feeble. Predictable._ He scorned himself for even considering it. So, what ought he say? 'Have fun'? Well, that seemed unlikely, if the numerous birth documentaries he had been watching recently were anything to go by. 'Call if you need me'? Offering support was infinitely preferable to a generic 'Good luck'. He typed that one out, but deleted it almost immediately.

They wouldn't need him.

That thought stung, as always. He cursed himself. Mycroft had been right. _Don't get involved._

He was far, _far_ too involved. Christmas had been a disaster, and one that had nearly cost him everything. _You always were so stupid. That's your weakness, you always want things to be clever._ He had gone after a dragon far larger than he could tackle, to protect Mary. To protect John. He had almost been glad to get on that plane, and almost resentful of the hacker that had caused it to be turned around. _Almost_ glad. _Almost_ resentful. Because he couldn't bear to say goodbye.

Once they had tracked the hacker down (and it had turned out not only not to be Moriarty (somewhat disappointing), but not a criminal of any great threat _(very_ disappointing)), Mycroft had convinced the powers-on-high that had originally sentenced him for Magnussen's murder to revoke his punishment. 'Service to Queen and country at great personal risk' and 'honourable character in a national time of need' and all that drivel.

So now, here he was. Alone in the flat with too many armchairs.

He didn't reply.

 

* * *

 

Thirty-two hours and two packs of cigarettes later, Sherlock was jolted back to reality by the realisation that he really ought to have received a text from John by now. Thirty-two hours was a very long time to be giving birth. Had John forgotten to text him? Had he been offended at Sherlock's lack of well-wishes? Unlikely; it took more than a lack of a reply to offend John Watson. He checked John's blog. No announcement. He sent John a text asking if all was well, but after twenty minutes he had received no reply. Eventually deciding to summon Mrs Hudson, he yelled her name in the direction of 221A. Eight seconds passed before he heard the click-clack of kitten heels on the staircase.

"Sherlock, dear, you _could_ just-" When she was hit by the thin haze permeating the room, she coughed and tried to fan it out with her hands. "Sherlock Holmes, _what have I said about smoking in this flat?_ Have you even moved from that chair since I came to see you yesterday?" Her glare was uncharacteristically stern.

"Have you heard from John in the last day?"

The stern expression slipped from her face in an instant, replaced by one of excitement.

"Oh, no I haven't, have they had the baby?"

Something turned in Sherlock's stomach. A small inkling of concern. John surely wouldn't neglect to text Mrs Hudson if the child had been born by now.

Ignoring Mrs Hudson's questions, he stood, scattering the babywear catalogues he had been perusing for Mary, and made for his bedroom to find a set of clothes untainted by the smell of burning tobacco and melancholia.


	2. Cold Water

John and Mary's house was the obvious place to start. Assuming the birth had taken sixteen hours (a generous estimate), they would have been held for a few hours to monitor health of mother and child, before being released to go home. Assuming all had gone well, they would surely be home by now. When he got to the front door, he could hear water running through the plumbing that resided in the front walls of the house. He released a small sigh of relief - they were home, and one of them was most likely having a bath or shower, given the prolonged water flow.

He wasn't sure as to whether he would be welcome - John hadn't texted him to announce the arrival of the child, but perhaps he had been so caught up with excitement and relief that he had forgotten. Sherlock had helped Mary with all the preparations for the baby, after all, so _she_ at least was unlikely to begrudge him a visit. Anyway, John would surely be proud introduce the child to Sherlock, wouldn't he? Sherlock never understood why parents were so keen to show off their children to other people, but it seemed to be a thing that happened _. Look, I had sex, and my sperm penetrated her ovum! Isn't it wonderful? There's another human on Earth to feed with the dwindling resources and overpopulation that we're already struggling with! Isn't it special? Aren't we great? Isn't love brilliant?_

Sherlock shook himself out of his thoughts once he realised he'd been standing awkwardly on the doorstep for far too long. Pulling out his pickpocketed set of keys, he let himself in. He was greeted by a house too cold for a newborn baby, the sight of an unused pram and only John's pair of shoes at the door. In that second, he realised.

_John is here. Mary isn't here. The child isn't here._

_Don't panic,_ he told himself. _Don't assume. Maybe they're still at the hospital._ But the bottle of whiskey at the table told him otherwise. Sherlock had last been here three days ago, and that bottle had been almost full. Now, at least 400mL was missing; far more than a delighted father-to-be should have drunk over the two days preceding the birth of his child.

_They didn't survive the birth._

The realisation hit him with more force than he could have expected.

_Mary._

Clever, troublesome Mary. Cunning, charming Mary. Mary, who had saved John when Sherlock had deserted him in order to do the same. Mary, and her child the world was yet to meet.

Seconds passed, before he jolted back into action.

John. _John._

He ran up the stairs and into John and Mary's bedroom, and the bathroom door was open.

John was sitting in the bath with his knees drawn up to his chest, staring straight ahead. The taps were still running and the bath was overflowing. There was a small ocean accumulating on the tiles where the floor drain couldn't keep up with the downpour from the bath.

_Oh, John._

He knew then, what he would have to be for John. For however long John needed him to be it.

Sherlock shed his coat then entered the bathroom, splashing through the flood on the floor, and turned the taps off. The water had run cold, and the water in the bath was cold, too. John must have been here for hours. Sherlock reached into the bath, disregarding the fact that his sleeves were getting soaked, and pulled the plug.

"John."

The doctor hadn't moved since Sherlock had entered the bathroom. He only reacted when Sherlock tentatively put a hand to his shoulder. He didn't speak, he didn't shrug him off. He met Sherlock's gaze, and there was a void in his eyes that sucked all the air from the room.

"Come on, John. Come on."

Sherlock lifted John's arm and draped it over his own shoulders, and pulled him to standing. His naked body was pale and he was shivering all over. Sherlock could feel a slightly elevated pulse rate in his wrist, and estimated John's temperature to be 34-35°C, by the temperature of his armpit.

_Mild hypothermia. Won't require professional attention. Treatment: Dry the patient, insulate, and warm slowly without direct contact to hot objects or substances._

He could smell the alcohol on John's breath, and he was heavy against him. John let Sherlock lead him to the bedroom and sit him down on the bed, and accepted the towel that Sherlock handed him to dry himself with. Sherlock opened the wardrobe to find him some clothes, and was assaulted with the smell of Clair De La Lune. Of Mary. He ignored it. _Caring about her doesn't help now. I need to help John._

He pulled out the first pants, socks, shirt, jeans and jumper he saw, and sat them down on the bed next to John. John had only done a desultory job of drying himself, so Sherlock picked up the towel and dried the parts that John had missed. He was thankful for John's short hair - at least it wouldn't retain excess water. He continued to draw the towel across the rest of John's body, under his arms, over his chest. He pulled John to standing and worked the towel over his buttocks, crotch, and down his legs to his feet. The fact that John (usually so modest and _comme il faut_ when it came to nudity) didn't flinch told everything Sherlock needed to know about his mental state.

_Symptoms of grief: Emotional shock, numbness, lack of self-awareness, possibly denial._

He helped John dress (or rather, he dressed John while the doctor's arms hung half-heartedly in the air, waiting for a shirt) and sat him down on the bed again before returning to the wardrobe. He pulled several days worth of clothes out and found a bag to put them in. There was no chance that John would be staying here tonight, not in this condition.

He went back into the bathroom and grabbed John's toothbrush and razor, and threw them into the bag as well. He considered fetching John's gun from where he knew it was kept in the bedside table, but decided against it. John wouldn't be needing his gun for quite some time.


	3. Of All, This.

John had allowed himself to be taken downstairs and loaded into the taxi with Sherlock. He still hadn't said a word. Sherlock texted Mrs Hudson before they arrived to let her know what was happening.

_"Mary and the child didn't survive the birth. John is coming to stay. Air out the cigarette smoke and put the fire on. Will need food. S"_

When the taxi pulled up to 221B and Sherlock paid the cabbie, he had to nudge John to make him realise they were there. Mrs Hudson was waiting for them in the hallway, and she enveloped John in a tearful embrace as soon as the door was closed behind them.

"Oh, _John!"_

"Hi, Mrs. H." His voice was small.

* * *

 

John barely moved that evening. Sherlock wrapped him in a blanket and sat him by the fire. When he had warmed enough to avoid accidentally being burned by the hot water of a shower, Sherlock sent him to wash. When he emerged, Sherlock sat him down to eat some dinner. Having never assumed the role of carer before, it felt foreign; being the one to order John around and ensure he was getting what he needed. But it was what Sherlock needed to do, now. He didn't ask any questions, and John offered no insights as to what had gone wrong.

_Time. He needs time._

They sat in silence by the fire late into the night. John watched the flames, and Sherlock watched John.

Being a carer was not the only new thing today - sympathy was not something Sherlock was in the habit of doing, either. But now, he felt a deep ache in his chest for John. That ache was a physical manifestation of grief that Sherlock had become familiar with since his return from Eastern Europe. When he'd returned, he'd assumed that John would be waiting for him. He had assumed that their adventures would begin again and it would be business as usual. And when John had been uncooperative, he had assumed that he could just replace John with another helpmate - not an optimal situation, but it would be sufficient, surely.

How _very_ naive of him.

That one day with Molly had made Sherlock realise everything that he had taken for granted.

The relationship that Sherlock and John had built in the two years before he faked his death ran far further than mere flatmates. Sherlock had only realised how deep-rooted that bond was when he realised that John's companionship may not be the default situation any more.

They were a team, and a true understanding ran between them. After Redbeard and perhaps Victor, John had been Sherlock's only true friend. And since returning, Sherlock had begun to question whether that was all that John meant to him. He was an excellent helper to have on cases, obviously, and he tolerated the behaviour that had driven so many people away. Sherlock was at his sharpest, his most brilliant, _he worked best_ when John was there to help him - Sherlock was dependent on him. _His conductor of light._

But deeper than all of that, far deeper, John was a companion. A friend, a confidant. _My friend._ Sherlock didn't just know _who_ John was, he knew _what_ he was, he knew _why_ John came on cases, _why_ he was a doctor, _why_ he'd joined the military, _why_ he had stormed into that crack den.

And that was what had made Sherlock realise. That stab of possessiveness, that conviction that only _he_ could truly understand John, and that only John truly understood him. How could he have been ignorant for so long? Perhaps he had been in denial, determined to allow Mycroft's doctrine to continue ruling him. When he returned from Eastern Europe, though, he couldn't delude himself any longer. _Human error._

He loved John.

He cared about John more than he cared about any other person. Cold reason and detachment be damned - he wanted John to be here, to be close. Mycroft might be content with loneliness, and determined to force that lifestyle upon Sherlock, but John had worked his way too far within Sherlock's walls to not leave a void when he left.

Sherlock knew this was not a shallow fascination, like he had harboured for Irene Adler. Only to himself could Sherlock admit that he had been swept away by her charm and wit. His desire to impress her had been nothing to do with love, and everything to do with the challenge she offered. _Just playing the game._ He loved nothing more than being proven right, than _winning,_ and he considered anybody who came close to beating him with fascination. No, this was nothing like Adler. This was John, whose warmth and constant friendship had saved him not only from murderers and criminals, but also from himself.

And knowing these past months that John was sharing a bed with Mary every night, that he wanted to live with _her_ and _not Sherlock,_ that he spent his days with _her, and not Sherlock_ \- it hurt. For all that Sherlock liked Mary, it hurt that John had chosen her and not him. A dull, deep ache that thudded in his chest when he thought about it; the same that he now felt in sympathy as he watched John. In the weeks coming up to the wedding, it had been his constant companion. _The chemistry is incredibly simple, and very destructive._

_What if I'd told him I was alive?_ What if he'd contacted John in those two years? Would John have waited for him? Would he still have been in 221B when Sherlock returned? John had initially been interested - intrigued, at the very least - but the 'married to my work' comment had quickly snuffed out his advances. The bitter irony of it still burned. Little was he to know at the time how integral John would become to not only The Work, but every other aspect of his life.

His sentiment for John manifested itself in other ways, too. As embarrassing as it was, when Sherlock took himself in hand, it was no longer just the tiresome physical necessity that it had been for so many years. Now, he was haunted by visions of John that he didn't _want_ to want, but were too potent to let go. He imagined John's moans, he imagined John's body against his own. On more than one occasion, his fingers had wandered to his anus - _what would he feel like there?_ But he stopped himself. _No. Don't be pathetic._ He always tried to think about Adler instead - the only other person he could bear to consider in a sexual context - to rid himself of this desire for John. He even started watching pornography featuring brown-haired women. But no matter how determinedly he tried, whenever he got close to the peak, Adler's delicate hands would morph into John's strong ones, her features would shift and become masculine, her voice would turn low and gravelly, and it was John filling his senses as he climaxed. The relief was only brief, though - it was swiftly replaced with that ache in his chest and a side of self-disgust. _Honestly_ \- Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective of international repute, unable to control his own desire for someone who could not be his. _In the end, are you really so obvious?_

But deeper than the desire for John to be near, was the desire for John to be happy. John, who had suffered. Who was brave, and fiercely loyal, and wise, and kind. Who was everything worthy of admiration, and everything that Sherlock was not. John deserved to be happy, and he had decided that Mary made him happy. Sherlock could never act upon his realisation, it was too late. Only a fool chases a setting sun.

And so, Sherlock had carried on living with the constant reminders that he was now alone. He had thought aloud to John's empty armchair and made do with Mrs Hudson's mindless dithering for conversation. He had helped organise the wedding. He had stood in front of a room of people and done his best to act as though every word of congratulations he offered John was not causing him physical pain. He had taken a bullet, he had died, he had restarted his own heart. He had risked Mycroft, he had risked the British nation. He had killed a man. To keep John happy. To protect Mary. To protect their child.

And now, this. John, of all people, did not deserve _this._

At some point, Sherlock returned to the present. He saw John's lips purse, his head jerk - a small, stern movement. He'd seen that movement before. When John had visited Sherlock's grave, all those years ago, John had nodded like that. It was the nod of a soldier determined to lock away his pain, to self-destroy rather than admit suffering. To hide behind a facade that told the world that everything was okay, _I am fine._

"Don't, John. Not this time." He surprised himself as the words fell from his lips in the otherwise silent room – silent, save for the crackling of the fire. He’d uttered them softly, almost softly enough that he could hope John hadn't heard them. But after a second, John met his eyes. And his face contorted as he dissolved into tears. Sherlock had been expecting an angry rebuke - but this? He had no idea how to react. When the occasion called for ruthless sarcasm or banter, Sherlock was in his element. Comfort, however, was a foreign concept. John drew his legs to his chest, and buried his face in his knees as he shuddered with sobs. _Hiding. Ashamed._ Sherlock ruled out trying to comfort him physically, then.

"John, you - don't feel like you... this is normal." _God, how feeble._ He didn't blame John for the venom in his response.

_"I know it's normal."_ He practically spat the words at Sherlock. John got up and moved round to grip his hands on the back of his chair, his chest still heaving with sobs as he leaned onto it.

"Sorry." It was all Sherlock could think to say. He lowered his eyes. There would be an outburst, any second now, he could see it bubbling under the surface like it had when he'd found out about Mary's betrayal -

"Why does - _nothing-in-my-life-just - HAPPEN - THE WAY - I WANT IT TO?"_ John grabbed the nearest object - the TV remote - and threw it into the kitchen. It caught a beaker and a flask on the table in its flight and sent them soaring. The sound of shattering glass punctuated their fall.

_"WHAT DID I DO?"_ He grabbed the framed pictures on the shelf, and threw them too.

_"WHAT DOES THE - FUCKING - UNIVERSE - HAVE AGAINST ME?"_ This time, he wrenched the lamp from its socket and threw it across the room.

_"WHY - IS IT ALWAYS - ME?"_ He launched Billy the Skull at the wall, and shards of bone exploded from where he collided with the wallpaper.

It was only when John made for Sherlock's glassware that Sherlock intervened. Not because he was worried about the glass - glass was replaceable - but because it might cause John to hurt himself. He managed to get a hold of John's biceps from behind, and pull him into a bear hug that prevented him from lashing out and hurting either of them.

_"John - please-"_ John tried to fight him off, writhing in his arms.

_"LET ME GO! LET ME GO, SHERLOCK, LET - let me -"_ And then he sagged, and all the fight left him. Sherlock took his weight as he collapsed back against him, and John's head hung limp. His choked sobs rattled through both their bodies, and Sherlock just hung on to keep him upright, too afraid that his own voice might crack if he said what he wanted to. He didn't have that luxury now. He had to be strong so that John could be vulnerable.

_I'm sorry, John._

_You don't deserve this._

Eventually, John's breathing slowed and deepened again. He'd cried himself out, for now. He gained balance on his own feet again, and pulled away a little so that he was upright. Sherlock let his arms drop from around him. John didn't turn to meet his eyes, nor did he say anything. He just padded towards Sherlock's bedroom and through the open door. Sherlock stood rooted to the spot. Was John so past the point of caring that he was just taking the nearest room? Or did he want company?

Sherlock followed him into the room about ten seconds later. John was lying in the far side of the bed, curled on his side with his back to Sherlock.

"Do you, er-" Sherlock cleared his throat. "Would you rather I-"

"I don't want to sleep alone." His voice was hollow and hoarse.

"Okay." Right. Simple.

Sherlock went into the bathroom to brush his teeth, his mind reeling, and changed into pyjamas before joining John in the bed. John didn't move, didn't say anything. _Do I say something? Do I touch him?_ He couldn't think of any comfort that mightn't earn him a rebuke, so he settled for silence. He listened as John's breathing slowed, deepened, quietened as he fell into slumber and - for a few hours - escaped.

Sherlock didn't sleep that night.


End file.
